


Serrated Tears Live in Dull Eyes

by Akumaloligirl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asylum, Canon Divergence, Disassociation, Dubious Consent, F/M, History, Insanity, Intercrural Sex, Intimacy, Madness, Mental Instability, Mental Institution, Romance, Skin Hunger, Slow Burn, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension, WWII, Waterboarding, World War II, Yandere, electroshock, underage relationships, unhealthy relationship, unstable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akumaloligirl/pseuds/Akumaloligirl
Summary: During WWII, a man get out in an asylum and makes friend with a fellow patient. This is a terrible summary. I wonder if the writing is much better either. Heh.





	1. Prologue

A letter was found amidst the ash of an old institution that had been bombed by Nazis in World War II. The asylum was known to be more medically advanced than any other facility at the time, and was praised by its what was then considered to be humane treatment of its patients. To have a family member committed there meant that you actually cared about that person and was also used as a sign of excessive wealth. Lobotomies were banned from practice there and the patients were allowed personal items and visitors. Though it was said that some wealthy members of high society committed themselves despite being perfectly sane in order to escape from the war as the institution was said to have several underground bunkers. It was later confirmed once the radiations cleared that this was a ploy by the asylum to garner more patients and thus more funding. As far as asylums went, it's history was tame. But with the discovery of a letter, many people began to rethink things. But in modern day, the physical and mental abuse that this one patient suffered caused the whole nation to weep.


	2. Author's notes

this story is set during WWII, but in no way will it be historically accurate. If you're a history buff this will probably be insanely offensive because I did no research for it. I'm not sorry about it. So consider our history as a story, and I'm doing canon diverangance on WWII. If that makes it easier. As with all my other stories, this will deal with hard issues such as depression, self-harm, and will be mentioning rape offhandedly. The narrators are completely unreliable, too, so try not to take them seriously. Keep an open mind, please. Also, the next chapter is going to take a long time to type out, so I'm going to chop it up into smaller chapter so the endings might be very abrupt.


	3. Chapter 1

Of my past, I can recall very little. The fragments of memories that I do posses is ottos more than a disjointed, contorted haze. My mind is like a fractured stone maze, some paths lurking down in the mist are blocked by a broken wall that had crumbled due to the passage of time. All I can remember are simply convoluted images that make little sense. So much harder to put together than the puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly. It is a useless practice when the doctors try to bring more to light. The few memories that have remained with me through it all, they are so varied, so different. And so my early years remain an utter mystery to me. But the scars? They tell me I do not want to remember. They way they curl angrily around my shoulders and snake thinly like a vice about my neck. The way the jagged white lines are stretched with growth on my legs. They are violent and many. My body is a canvas for demented artwork. Why should I remember the "artistic process" as I like to call it?

The doctors do not approve of my reasoning. I do not approve of their faces. Well, what little I can see. They wear face masks. As if insanity were an infectious disease. I one time told them that. I was subsequently punished for it. I was still new here at the time, so I was really young. They went easy on me then. They don't anymore. 

No matter what they try, whether hypnotism or electroshock, my amnesia firmly keeps my mind a white sheet, covered by a few scribbled blurred sentences. At the same time, this amnesia can only protect me so much under the doctor's assaults. I might not remember but the trauma still lingers. Beards terrify me. I cannot get within a yard of any of the patients that have beards. I start screaming if this rule is not observed. And scissors cause me to go cold with terror. If a person holding scissors attempts to bring them close to me, my survival instincts close in around me and I start to fight for my life. I killed three nurses and one Doctor the first time it was discovered. Needless to say, I have not gotten a haircut since I have been committed. There are others, and I'm still discovering more. 

It's sad that I still suffer when I can't even remember. 

I know I'm insane. I'm clear enough that I can understand at least that. To know I'm different from others. That I'm, as the doctor's say, "a bad little girl". A freak that needs to be kept hidden. I'm aware that there is something inside of me that's fractured. That I'm broken. Not my heart, for the word love is as unknown to me as my own past. Not my mind, for I've been told that is sharp, but that phrase itself I have trouble understanding. So, I think it's my soul that's broken. But Father Reyes says that the soul is the strongest, purest part of a person. So am I weak? Or am I so impure that the strongest part of me is easily broken? I don't understand. 

Dr. Devrin said it wasn't my soul that was broken. He didn't even use that word. He said I was "shattered". I asked him what the difference was, but he ignored me. He does that a lot, like the other doctors, when he doesn't want to bother with me. Instead, he just inflicts his harsh treatments on me. He says it will make me better. I don't know if I want to get better or not, for all I have ever known as far back as I can remember was the allure, the tranquility of my insanity. But if I ever do get better, I still would not want to endure what he puts me through. But....a strange thing. 

One time, when they thought I was unconscious from the waterboarding treatment, I heard them say how remarkable how much I was able to endure. They said that a grown man would have retreated completely into his own mind after eight hours of the water boarding therapy. I did not even realize that much time had passed. When anything gets really bad, I go into my mind and everything just eases away. The pain is there, but I'm not. I'm floating within my mind in a dark chasm. The abyss I call it. There nothing can hurt me and I possess powers even I myself cannot fathom. I know it's strange because I described it to Louise and she called me a "crazy, rotten bitch of a liar". I thought that was hypocritical. But I've never know her to be a liar.

When the treatment just starts, before I can retreat into the sanctuary of my mind, I look into the nurses' eyes. The way they look at me, the way they whisper to one another as they flip the switch to submerge me, I know better than to hold out any hope that I will ever be fixed. Sometimes I cry. Not for the pain which has become an expected companion, but for the sorrow. I do not mind being a lunatic or abnormal. But I want to be loved.


End file.
